


Can't Remember Never Loving You

by SherlockWatson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bees, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, M/M, Retirement!lock, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23409967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/pseuds/SherlockWatson_Holmes
Summary: Sherlock and John have retired to a cottage in Sussex, thirty years after their first meeting.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 94
Collections: Sherlock Fandom VS 2020





	Can't Remember Never Loving You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [addicted2hugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/gifts).



The sun is setting on a warm evening in the Sussex Downs, the light reflecting off the beehives at the end of the plain, neat garden. The heat has built up in the south-facing garden throughout the day, though it has cooled just enough, thanks to the shading of some tall leylandii along the southern fence.

On a large stone patio two men are seated at a small round table, their chairs facing the sunset rather than each other.

Doctor John Watson (looking relaxed in beige chinos and a short-sleeved checked shirt) sips from his large glass of full-bodied Shiraz, the smile on his face emphasising the deep lines around his eyes and mouth that have come from years of laughter, rather than worry. His hair is completely silver now and has grown out from his traditional military cut. Sherlock prefers it this way, and who is he to argue with the great detective.

At the age of sixty-three, Sherlock has retained his full head of thick curls, though they are now such a bright white that he reminds John of a mad scientist. Well… he _is_ a mad scientist, isn’t he? His dress sense has only marginally relaxed since his retirement; the navy suit trousers are a finer cotton and the sleeves of the pale blue shirt are rolled to his elbows. 

The couple retired to the red and cream brick cottage three years ago when John turned sixty-five and left his part-time job at the surgery. They had been taking less and less dangerous jobs for the last few years as John’s knees began to complain about the rooftop chases, and Sherlock had a concussion for the umpteenth time.

Mrs. Hudson had long-since passed, Greg and Molly both retired (together and with grandkids) and Mycroft, still running the country at the ripe old age of seventy-one, the ever-present Anthea on hand to help with the legwork.

Sherlock holds his wine glass up towards John’s. ‘We met thirty years ago today. Thirty years, John. I’m a certified genius but even I can’t understand how that is even possible.’

John smiles softly, picking up his own glass and clinking it against Sherlock’s.

‘We must have done something very good in a previous life. Or very bad, depending on how you look at it’, he grins. ‘Today isn’t just thirty years since we met though, is it?’

‘Ah, but it’s the most important date. The rest is just paperwork.’

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s complete lack of romantic sentimentality. Today is their anniversary in more ways than one: the “paperwork” was filed ten years ago today, on the twenty-ninth of January 2030, when they had been married in an intimate ceremony at The Petersham Hotel. They had been in a relationship for twelve years and had never planned to get married (John’s last marriage had somewhat put them both off), but when Mrs. Hudson’s health began to fail they decided they wanted to do it for her. And she was ecstatic. They had never seen her happier, she even gave a (mortifying) speech during the dinner.

‘Do you remember that first case?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘I can still remember the look on Lestrade’s face when I brought you to that crime scene’, Sherlock laughs.

‘I didn’t get it at the time but later I realised he’d probably never seen you voluntarily talk to another person.’

‘You may be right’, Sherlock says quietly. ‘You know… Mrs. Hudson, Angelo, Mycroft… They all assumed you were my boyfriend.’

‘Christ, they did! Right from the very beginning. Did they know you were gay?’

‘Know… Probably not. Strongly suspect?’ He thinks back. ‘Yes.’

‘God, I was so blind.’ John’s eyes wander across the garden, fixing on the dark green arbour in the south-east corner where he has often found Sherlock stretched out in his thinking pose or watching over his hives. He loves him so much it hurts.

Sherlock’s voice brings him back to the present. ‘You were ridiculously obtuse. I had even _told_ you during our first meal.’

‘No, you didn’t!’

‘Really? “ _Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”_ What did you think that meant?’

‘Okay, fine, I was an idiot. It was a brilliant case, though. Except for having to race through London in a cab trying to find you when you disappeared.’

‘And then that shot! My soldier coming to save the day. I think I fell in love with you right then.’

John’s vision becomes blurry as his eyes prickle with tears. He plays absentmindedly with the platinum ring on his left hand, a coping mechanism he uses to ground himself when he is struggling with emotions. He hates to think of what might have been. He has Sherlock now, and they have both never been happier.

Sherlock can see his husband falter. ‘Lestrade always knew it was you.’

‘What? No… Really?’ John has a moment of panic.

‘He’s not _that_ much of an idiot. I stopped in the middle of my perfect deduction of the shooter when my eyes landed on you. Then I told him everything I said was wrong.’

‘You voluntarily admitted to being wrong?’

‘Exactly. I would _never_ do that. He clearly didn’t follow it up, but he closed the investigation without looking anywhere else.’

‘Wow… Can’t believe I never knew that. Probably still best to leave that bit out of my book.’

‘Yes, agreed. How is the writing going? I see you sitting in your office watching me with the hives. Do you actually get any writing done?’ he teases.

‘Yes, plenty, thank you very much. I flew through the first few cases but then I got to the bombing case. Where we first met Moriarty.’ He averts his eyes so that Sherlock can’t see the pain in them. ‘It’s hard to write about him, considering everything that came later.’

Sherlock reaches across the table and squeezes his husband’s hand. ‘You might find it cathartic.’

‘Maybe’, he shakes away then memories, desperate to change the subject. ‘I don’t think I ever asked you; did you have a favourite case?’

‘Oh, without a doubt, The Woman.’

 _‘Seriously?!’_ John can feel his blood boil at the mention of her name.

‘No!’ Sherlock snorts a laugh. ‘I just _knew_ you’d react like that’, he giggles at John’s expression.

‘Cock.’

‘Is that a request?’

John just pouts.

‘Oh, John. Didn’t we just have a conversation about my sexuality? He continues to laugh. ‘An honest answer to your question… I would say The Speckled Band.’

‘Why? Because you got to share a bed with me for the first time?’ he winks.

‘That, and I found out you have a ridiculous fear of snakes’, he smirks.

‘It’s not a _ridiculous fear!’_

Sherlock sticks out his tongue, relishing how easy it still is to wind John up.

‘What about you, then? Have a favourite case?’

‘Easy - The Aluminium Crutch. The Queen liked that one’, he says proudly.

‘Mycroft? Oh, you mean the actual Queen.’

John chokes on a mouthful of wine. ‘You’re awful to that man – yeah I know, he mostly deserves it. Back to the cases… I have a bit of a soft spot for the first one, of course. And… well… the one when you came back to me.’

‘Oh yes, _"_ _SherlockHolmesLives means JohnWatsonLives.”_ What was it you said? _“He’s like a drug.”_ How on earth did I not see that for what it was?’

‘Yeah… God. I was head over heels for you, wasn’t I?’

‘I would hope you still are.’

‘Depends whether you remember to get the milk or not’, he grins at his husband.

‘Failing that… more wine?’ Sherlock picks up the bottle and fills John’s glass without waiting for a response.

‘It was a wild ride. Plenty of material for the book. The cold cases aren’t really the same, are they?’

‘No, but I have my bees. They’re endlessly fascinating… like you.’

‘I’m not sure if that’s super sweet or terribly cheesy.’

‘Probably both.’

‘There’s a lot of good memories in that flat. Tough decision to leave it after all these years.’

‘True. But the stairs were becoming a bit of a problem with your age and your psychosomatic –’

‘Oi!’ John throws a piece of breadstick at Sherlock, which lands squarely in his fluffy curls. Sherlock pouts, rooting it out and throwing it back. He catches John’s eyes and smiles.

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, you madman. Loved you for thirty damn years.’

As the evening wears on the summer breeze picks up and the hairs on John’s arms stand on end as a shiver runs through him. He pushes away from the table, stretching his hand out towards his husband.

‘Let’s go inside, it’s getting a bit chilly.’

Sherlock stands, but instead of following John into the house he pulls him towards him, wrapping him up in his arms.

‘Whoa! Wasn’t expecting that.’ John turns in Sherlock’s arms so they are facing each other, and they both begin to sway to music only they can hear.

‘This was the perfect anniversary. You, me, no other idiots, and good food I didn’t have to cook.’

‘Yeah, it wasn’t bad at all. It could only be made better with a lovely soak in that ridiculously large tub.’

‘You’re full of good ideas, Doctor Watson-Holmes.’

They pull apart just enough to walk into the cottage with their arms around each other.

‘Happy anniversary, Bee.’

‘Happy anniversary, John. Here’s to another thirty years.’


End file.
